


Children of the Revolution

by BadNewsForBrainWork



Category: Moulin Rouge! (2001), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, F/M, M/M, Multiple Pairings, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 07:39:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadNewsForBrainWork/pseuds/BadNewsForBrainWork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock/Moulin Rouge AU: John is an English writer travelling to the small village of Montmartre in Paris, France is hopes of taking part in the Bohemian Revolution. As soon as he arrives, he gets swept up by the revolutionaries and taken to the Moulin Rouge where he meets Sherlock Holmes. He quickly finds himself caught in a dangerous love triangle that could risk his entire career and maybe even his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The platform was humming with activity. Businessmen made their way through the crowds, sometimes alone, sometimes with a wife and children in tow. Young couples threw their arms around each other, perhaps seeing each other for the first time in months. Mothers and fathers bid farewell to their adult children, tears in their eyes. It seemed that everyone had a mission on this particular day, but this was not the case for the young Englishman who stepped off the train last.

For John Watson, the trip to Paris had been spontaneous and much to his family's disapproval. Yet here he was, in the heart of France, the center of the Bohemian Revolution. The year was 1899, and at the young age of 28, he was itching for an adventure unlike any other. Like his father, he had decided to become a writer, but he had been severely lacking inspiration. After a tip-off from a friend, he'd hopped on the first ship that set sail from London to see what all the fuss was about. He'd been assured that it would be the best experience of his life. So far, his friend hadn't been far off.

Now, he made his way through the station in his hand-me-down three-piece suit, a large and tattered suitcase clutched to his side. After glancing around nervously, he made his way to the ticket booth in hopes of finding some sort of direction. This was his first trip to France, after all, and he was incredibly prone to becoming lost.

"Excuse me? Could you point me in the direction of the village of Montmartre?" he asked as he slid to a stop in front of the booth. The older man on the other end looked bored at first, but when John presented his query, the man glared at him over his half-moon glasses.

"I find it surprising that a young man like you would be headed there," he grumbled in perfect French. John was suddenly thankful of his father and his many adventures around the world. He had learned French and Spanish at a very young age because of that, so talking to the ticket man now was not a problem.

"Well, I'm a writer, you see. I've just come from London and I'm quite unfamiliar with this area. If you could point me in the general direction, I should be able to find it." He gave the man a wide smile and impatiently began tapping his foot. His suitcase was much heavier than he had remembered. Sensing this, the man quickly resumed his vacant gazing.

"It's just up the hill from the station. You should have no trouble finding it," he replied icily. He quickly added, "May God forgive you," which John found terribly rude. He couldn't fathom the village being that horrible.

"Thank you," he said curtly, taking off in the direction of the exit. Once he reached the street outside, he understood what the man was talking about. On the hill overlooking the station, he could clearly see the village. There was nothing particularly striking about it except for the giant windmill structure not far from the hotel he would be staying in. It was, without a doubt, the famed Moulin Rouge. He had only heard stories, but they had all sounded so terrific. Dancing, drinking, and perhaps more scandalous endeavors, were all things John enjoyed greatly.

He quickly pushed the thought from his head, remembering the walk that faced him now. Whether it would take an hour, maybe even two, was the least of his worries as he began to climb the steep hill. All he cared about now was a bed, sleep, and the possibility of a party later in the evening. With much enthusiasm and a wide grin on his face, he pushed onwards to the village of Montmartre.

 

{***}

 

He had reached the hotel much more quickly than he had expected to, his pace obviously quickened by the promise of festivities in a few hours. The sun was setting by now and the matron at the door looked quite frazzled. Not wanting to give her any further problems, he paid for his room for a week in advance and retreated there at once.

It was much smaller than he had hoped and a bit more rundown than he had originally thought it would be. Above him, he could hear loud footsteps and yelling, which irked him greatly. As a writer, he needed his peace and quiet, and things were already off to a bad start with this unfortunate rooming predicament. All he could do was hope that this didn't become a daily occurrence. Otherwise, the room was fitted to his needs. An old desk sat near the window, which incidentally lead out to a balcony overlooking the village. A much-too-large bed occupied the wall across from the door, but it looked comfortable and snug, so John had no complaints.

He quickly unpacked his things, shoving his clothes haphazardly into drawers and the small closet in the corner of the room. He removed his old typewriter from the case and sat it carefully on the desk, smoothing over the keys with his short fingers. The typewriter had been a gift from his father on his 10th birthday, and ever since had been his most prized possession. He had been urged to get a newer model as the years went on, but in the end, he couldn't bring himself to do it. This typewriter had been with him through it all and he would not easily abandon it.

After setting up his typewriter, he strode across the room, undoing his tie. He quickly removed his suit jacket and vest, then flopped down on the bed. It wasn't nearly as comfortable as it looked, but it would do. He closed his eyes, only to remember the incessant thudding above him.

"Hey! Could you keep it down up there?" he shouted, covering his ears. He lay there, waiting for the noise to stop, nearly falling asleep once but a loud crash jolting him awake instead. His dreams of a nap slowly evaporated as the ruckus continued on for another twenty minutes.

"Damn idiots," he muttered as he stood up, pinching the bridge of his nose. He walked to the door, preparing his choice words for the elephants upstairs when something strange, yet very fortunate happened.

It started as the sound of wood straining under the weight of something incredibly heavy. John looked up to see bits of ceiling crumbling to the floor. His eyes widened as he realised what was happening. He flattened himself to the door as the ceiling gave way, and a man fell through, dangling from a rope by his leg. John was in motion before he could even think.

He knew enough about medicine to know that this man could very well be seriously injured and he wasn't about to take a chance. He quickly untied the rope but in his flustered state, forgot the laws of gravity. The man fell and crumpled on the ground, his body sprawling on the wood floor of the room. John stood gaping for a moment before dropping to his knees and shaking the man vigorously.

"Are you alright?" he asked out of procedure, knowing he wouldn't get a response. He quickly grabbed his wrist, taking his pulse. It was a normal resting heart rate. He checked the man's breathing and that, too, was normal. It appeared as if this man was just sleeping soundly, unaware of the fact that he just fell through the ceiling.

In all the commotion, John had missed the presence of a young woman standing in his doorway. Her brunette hair was pulled back from her face, which was covered in extremely ridiculous looking make-up. She was grinning wildly, her eyes sparkling in the light of the setting sun. He turned just in time to see her stride across the room and thrust a hand out to him.

"How do you do? My name is Molly! I see you've met my friend, Greg. Narcoleptic, I'm afraid. This happens sometimes. Hope it's not too much of a bother." She inched a bit closer to John, who was staring up at her with terror in his eyes. How had she blown off a serious illness like narcolepsy as if it was a mild case of the sniffles?

"J-John…" he stuttered, not holding out a hand for her to shake. Instead, he turned his focus back to the man before him, lying on the ground. He had to be at least 30 years old, prematurely graying, normal build… not a likely candidate for narcolepsy, really. John turned to look back at the woman who was now twirling a piece of loose hair around her finger.

"You said… narcolepsy? That's a serious condition." He was no medical doctor, but he'd heard enough about narcolepsy to know it shouldn't be taken so lightly. Molly simply shrugged, leaning down to pick up the unconscious Greg. John jumped up, expecting her to stagger under the weight of Greg. She had thrown his limp arm over her shoulder, and wrapped her arm around his middle to steady him. She was, apparently, much stronger than she looked.

"This happens a lot, so I'm used to it." She smiled up at John sweetly and then turned to walk out the door, Greg's limp body leaning against her small frail one. Before she even made it to the threshold, two faces peeked through the hole in the floor, their eyes frantic. John, startled by their sudden appearance, stumbled to the bed, sitting. He peered up at them, his face still so horror-stricken that one might think he'd just seen a ghost.

"Molly! Molly! What's keeping you? We've got to get to work on the next song! I think I've already got the tune worked out!" The voice belonged to a young African American woman with massive curls. As if just noticing John's presence in the room, she gave him a terse nod. "So are you coming or not?"

"Sally, just a moment! I don't see you trying to haul Lestrade up the stairs!" She stuck out her lower lip in a pout, which John found to be adorable. The woman, Sally, merely turned her nose up and disappeared from view. This was the cue for the other person peering down from above to speak.

"You! Yes, you!" A long, pale finger jutted out from the hole to point at John. "Come closer!" Obeying, John moved across the room to look directly up at the face looming above him. It was the face of a man, perhaps only slightly older than himself. His face was painted with clown-like make-up and he wore an expression of utter disgust. John just stared up at him, bewildered, almost regretting his decision to come here.

"Is that a typewriter? Are you a writer?" The man frowned, his eyebrows knitting as he pointed to the typewriter on John's desk.

"Yes, it is… and yes, I am. I've only arrived from London about three hours ago." He was surprised that he had managed a coherent statement, but the man's interest in his typewriter had sobered him up a bit.

"I see… we're writing a play, you see. Spectacular, Spectacular! I could really use the opinion of another writer but you…" He trailed off, frowning again at John.

"But I what? I'm too young, inexperienced, is that it?" John snapped back, furrowing his brow. The man smirked, obviously impressed by John's ability to pick that out.

"That's right. However, you seem much smarter than I originally thought. Come with Molly upstairs, we'll have… a chat." He grinned impishly and disappeared before John could get a word in. He stared up at the hole in the ceiling for a long moment before turning to Molly. She smiled brightly at him, her eyes crinkling slightly. Greg stirred next to her, incoherently grumbling what sounded like a song.

"Well, come on, then! Let's go!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's not much to say about this chapter, as it's fairly straightforward. I spent hours and hours watching Moulin Rouge over again just to get the parts right and I'm proud with what I've come up with. I apologise if the formatting seems a little off, as I'm new to AO3 and still getting the hang of things. I have to thank KatrinaKay for being a wonderful friend, beta reading all of this multiple times and bouncing ideas around with me. Without her, this fic may not have happened so let's all give her a round of applause. She deserves it!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock/Moulin Rouge AU: John is an English writer travelling to the small village of Montmartre in Paris, France is hopes of taking part in the Bohemian Revolution. As soon as he arrives, he gets swept up by the revolutionaries and taken to the Moulin Rouge where he meets Sherlock Holmes. He quickly finds himself caught in a dangerous love triangle that could risk his entire career and maybe even his life.

The room above John's was much more than that; it was, in fact, as entire attic space. It was still relatively small, but large enough to fit a good amount of stuff needed for putting on a performance. Upon entering, several large props were visible from the door, leaning against the far wall. A piano sat in the right corner, the chair in front of it occupied by the one who went by Sally. A giant ladder stood in the middle of the room and to the left, a small bed. It was obviously not a place of lodging, but a place of working.

John stepped in behind Molly, who was still carrying Greg on her shoulder. She threw his limp body face down onto the bed and turned to John, cheeks flushed from exertion. He gave her a weak smile before turning to the man in the middle of the room, standing next to the hole in the floor. He wanted to laugh at the ridiculous make-up and outfit he sported, but he bit it back and forced a kind smile.

"Hello," the man drawled, sounding uninterested. He gave John a tiny wave before striding over to the piano where Sally sat. He leaned against it, surveying John. "My name is Anderson. I see that you've already met my assistants, so no need for introductions. John, was it? I'd like your help."

Anderson came to an abrupt stop, looking at John curiously. He was so deep in thought that he hadn't even realised that Anderson had stopped talking. He heard the eccentric playwright clear his throat and jumped.

"Right, um, sorry… yes, I don't have much experience with plays. I can certainly try to help though," he said reassuringly, grinning wider. Anderson merely turned his nose up at John, crossing his arms over his chest.

"It's just some minor details. Nothing major. Don't get excited." His words were frosty and John wondered if he really should be doing this. After all, he had no experience with playwriting and he didn't want to embarrass himself on his first day in Paris. He heard a squeak behind him and turned to see Molly, fuming.

"Anderson, be nice! I'm sure John is a fantastic writer! He's got a fancy typewriter and everything!" She puffed her cheeks and Anderson merely scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"Outdated, more like," he jabbed, sighing, "But that's not important. Everyone, take your places! John and I will discuss the script while you run through the last scene!" He quickly crossed the room and grabbed a thick stack of papers from a desk hidden behind some props. Molly audibly sighed, glancing at Greg passed out on the bed.

"We can't practice the scene if we don't have anyone to read Greg's role!" She shook her head, obviously exasperated, loose strands of hair falling in her face. Sally groaned from the piano and propped her chin on her hands.

"Well, then, why don't we get John to play the part for now? I'd really like to see his… talent," Anderson hissed, smiling devilishly. John quickly shook his head, clenching his hands into tight fists.

"No, no, I couldn't. I might be a writer, but I'm no actor…" He turned to look at Molly, who had the most pitiful expression on her face. There was no way he could deny a face like that. After a moment of silence, John sighed, scratching the back of his head.

"Fine, but just this once," he grumbled, crossing his arms, "Now, where do you want me?"

 

{***}

 

Everything happened so fast, John wasn't sure whether he was actually experiencing it or if he had managed to drift off in his last attempt at a nap. One moment later, he was standing at the top of the ladder, dressed in a shepherd's outfit, clutching a script nervously in his hands. He was dizzy from the height and the fact that Anderson's eyes probed him uncomfortably. Molly started with a small monologue that led into a song. Sally chimed in on the piano and judging by the horrid arrangement of notes, she'd had just about as much experience with the piano as John did with acting.

Molly was singing, or screeching rather, something about hills, while Sally pounded away at the piano keys. Anderson covered his ears, gritting his teeth and Greg stirred on the bed, rolling over onto his back. John just stood at the top of the ladder, wide eyed, the outfit he was wearing uncomfortably tight around his crotch, and not in a good way. Suddenly, Molly's voice cracked and Anderson began to shout.

"No! No, no, no!" He ran his hands through his greasy black hair, shaking with anger, "This is all wrong! We need to come up with something better…" He placed a hand on his chin, thinking, as Molly started to yell back.

"We've been working on this for hours! You just said it was perfect and now you're saying it's not!" John could tell she was about to lose it on Anderson and quickly put himself between the two.

"I've got an idea… what if we…" he started, but was abruptly cut off by Anderson's sharp voice.

"Do not interrupt my thought process!" Before the words had even left Anderson's mouth, Molly was pacing back and forth.

"The hills… the hills…" she muttered, obviously concentrating deeply. Sally just sighed from the piano, tapping her fingers against the wood. John could hear every little noise that was being made in the room and it made him want to scream. He couldn't hold it in anymore. He cleared his throat, warming his vocal cords, and in a loud, but smooth voice, began to sing.

__

> _The hills are alive with the sound of music,_  
>  _With songs they have sung for a thousand years…_

He stopped immediately when he saw Anderson's eyes on him, burning with hate. Molly stared up at him in awe and Sally had stopped her incessant tapping. Greg sat up suddenly, slack jawed, eyes wide.

"Wow, that was something else!" he mumbled sleepily, rubbing his eyes. He was up, crossing over to the ladder, his eyes sparkling.

"I love it!" Molly added, grinning broadly, then turning her gaze to Anderson, "See? John is great! Why don't you two write the show together?"

A long silence passed and then Anderson cracked. His face contorted in pure anger, his fists shaking at his sides. His face turned beet red and his eyes looked like they could pop out of his skull. He was so angry that he couldn't speak and that was obvious to everyone in the room. He stalked across the room to the door, flinging it open with such vigour it slammed against the wall.

"I quit," was all Anderson managed before slipping out of the door and slamming it on the way out. Sally groaned, running a hand through her curly mop.

"Well, he's not coming back," she commented, glaring at Molly and Greg. Even still, the two looked ecstatic. John wondered if they had secretly hoped this would happen. He looked down to see Greg smiling goofily at him from the bottom of the ladder.

"You've got talent!" he exclaimed, holding out a hand. John grabbed it and hopped off the ladder. He became aware of the fact he was sweating profusely, even though the room was rather cold. Molly came over and gave him an encouraging pat on the back.

"How would you like to write the script for the play?" she offered, squeezing his shoulder. He felt his throat tighten.

"Oh, no, I couldn't. I've never written a play before. Besides… I'm not sure that I've got the qualifications to be considered a true Bohemian revolutionary!" He shrugged out of Molly's grip and started to the door, his eyes on his feet. When he got there, he heard Greg grunt loudly, which made him turn slightly.

"Come on! We've got nothin' to go on now! Without a writer, we're not going anywhere. Mycroft will be not be pleased." Greg had a tiny bit of panic in his voice now, fear washing over his face. Even Molly froze at the name. John furrowed his brow and turned himself fully to face them.

"Mycroft? Who the hell is Mycroft? Your boss or something?" Greg cleared his throat and sighed, putting his hands on his hips.

"Mycroft Holmes… is the owner of the Moulin Rouge. I'm sure you've heard of it," he said proudly, his goofy grin returning to his face, "We're writing the play for him. He's tryin' to impress some Duke or something." John bristled at the name of the Moulin Rouge. How could these people expect an amateur writer such as himself to make a brilliant play out of practically nothing? For the Moulin Rouge, no less!

"I couldn't do that. I'm not that good," John replied, biting his lip. He saw Greg's face fall and then light up again. He rushed past Molly and grabbed John by the shoulders.

"You… are bloody brilliant! I've got an idea! We'll dress you up. Take you to the Moulin Rouge tonight. We'll let Mycroft decide if you're good enough!" John, realising that it was pointless to argue, merely smiled gently at him and shook his head.

"Okay, but promise me that you won't bother me if this Mycroft doesn't approve," John said, a hint of annoyance in his voice. Greg just smiled wider, gripping John's shoulders more tightly than before. Molly nodded once, her eyes lighting up with excitement. All the while, Sally sat idly at the piano, staring off into space.

It was decided, then. John Watson would go to the Moulin Rouge. He didn't know what it would entail and the truth was that he didn't want to. This was the adventure he'd been searching for and it was fortunate that he found it on his first day in Paris. With a light heart and eager eyes, he nodded and smiled. For once, he didn't worry about the repercussions of his actions. This was living. John Watson was finally, most definitely living.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was very excited to write this chapter. First off, the title "Children of the Revolution" comes from the song of the same name from the soundtrack by Bono and others. Second, I'm sure you all noticed our first bit of singing was incorporated into the fic. This is something I plan on doing throughout and I'm going to try to be as clear as possible as to who is singing at any given time. It can get confusing, I know. Singing will always be denoted by italics and block quotes. Thanks as always to my friend and beta reader, KatrinaKay!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock/Moulin Rouge AU: John is an English writer travelling to the small village of Montmartre in Paris, France is hopes of taking part in the Bohemian Revolution. As soon as he arrives, he gets swept up by the revolutionaries and taken to the Moulin Rouge where he meets Sherlock Holmes. He quickly finds himself caught in a dangerous love triangle that could risk his entire career and maybe even his life.

The almost bitter licorice taste of the absinthe stung John's mouth as he drank and drank and drank. Molly and Greg (who had earlier confessed to preferring being called by his last name, Lestrade) had coaxed him out onto the roof with a bottle of the stuff. He'd only heard whispers about the devilish liquor, never actually trying it himself, but now he had the chance and he was more than willing to take it.

Lestrade had poured some for John first, then Molly, then himself. They toasted to success at the Moulin Rouge and good times to come. His first swig hadn't been the most pleasant. He had spat it out and Molly laughed shrilly as she guzzled away at the crude liquid. His second swig was not so bad, as his mouth was still numb from the first. He drank, and Lestrade poured him another glass, and then another. He was intoxicated before long, leaning against Lestrade's shoulder, going on about things he would never tell anyone, drunk or sober. But the absinthe was different, playing cruel tricks on his eyes and his mind, his face tingling with the sensation of inebriation.

He blacked out, and the next thing he remembered was Lestrade shoving him down the nearly deserted streets of Paris. He was dressed in a crisp, freshly cleaned suit and top hat, obviously the one that Lestrade had mentioned before. Lestrade, of course, was strutting around in black trousers and no shirt. The only thing covering his torso was a maroon coloured vest. Molly wore a revealing red dress, which was tight around her stomach and her thighs and her breasts, which made John half hard. He blamed the alcohol.

Then he was being shoved into the door of the Moulin Rouge, men of all ages pushing past him. John felt queasy and sweaty, the acidic alcohol making his stomach squirm uncomfortably. He soldiered on, through the throngs of people, Lestrade's hands on his shoulders leading the way. John could hear him murmuring vague words of encouragement but they passed right through him as he took in the scene.

In front of them, a large dance floor, with women of all shapes and sizes perched on the edges, chatting with each other. They wore strange, puffy dresses that encompassed all colours of the rainbow, even some John had never seen before. A platform overlooked the floor and it appeared that it was a staff only area, as men in silly costumes sprinted around trying to set things up. Most people were standing around the dance floor, but there were also areas for sitting. Tables, just like in restaurants, lined the outskirts of the floor.

"Lestrade, we should sit," John suggested, tugging at his vest. His knees felt weak and his stomach still churned. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. Lestrade never answered, though, because as soon as John lowered his hand, loud music began to thunder through the hall and the women in cancan dresses filed out to the floor. They danced wildly, their eyes crazy and lustful, lifting their dresses to show their elaborate and frilly knickers.

> _Creole lady marmalade!_

This single line echoed through the hall, and the men swarmed the women, dancing with them, grinding against them. Some offered expensive looking clothing or objects to the women, others just danced, their hands in places they probably shouldn't be. John stiffened, feeling overwhelmingly uncomfortable and he tugged at Lestrade's vest again.

"Really, Lestrade, I'm not so sure about this…" John growled as quietly as he could. Lestrade just shrugged him off and shook his head. He looked over to Molly, but she was staring intently at the dance floor.

"Look!" Lestrade shouted suddenly, holding onto his top hat and pointing to the middle of the dance floor. Smoke appeared to pour out from nowhere and a two-person silhouette appeared. John just stared, wide-eyed, not sure if what he was seeing was real or an illusion. As the smoke cleared, he could now make out the figures.

The one on the right was somewhere in between average and stocky, but still rather tall. He wore a ridiculously bright red coat with long tails dragging on the floor and simple black trousers. He gripped an umbrella in his hand, leaning some of his weight against it. The way he carried himself made John immediately think that he was the ringleader of the whole operation. Mycroft Holmes.

There was another man on the left, tall and thin, but not too much so. His face was… strange to John. He was pale, with high cheekbones that jutted out on either side of his face. He had wonderfully lush lips, curly black hair slicked back slightly, and striking blue eyes. Unlike his shorter counterpart, he sported an expensive looking jet-black suit.

"That's him, John! That's Mycroft!" Molly screamed over the music. He leaned down in an attempt to get closer to her ear.

"Which one?" he asked, already guessing the answer but wanting confirmation. The voice that answered him was not Molly, but Lestrade.

"The one with the umbrella," he said with pride, a wide grin spreading across his face. John shifted away, feeling like maybe he should leave Lestrade alone with whatever dirty thoughts he had in his head.

"Who's the other one?" John asked Molly as the music picked up again.

> _Voulez-vous couches avec moi, ce soir?_

"That's Mycroft's brother, Sherlock," Molly answered, her face falling. John looked down at her, sensing something strange about the way she said his name. Sherlock. Molly must have noticed him staring at her, because she quickly added, "Yeah, he's just… he's different, John. He's not like anyone else I've ever met."

John turned his head again to stare at the two men, his eyes fixing on Sherlock. He felt his heart flip and shutter in his chest and he wasn't sure why. He could blame it on the absinthe, but he knew it wasn't. Out of all the beautiful women and men in this room, John had chosen to focus on that one face.

"You're right," John said after a long moment, his face flushed, "He's not like anyone else in this room."

 

{***}

 

They eventually did take seats, though it was just John and Molly. Lestrade had wandered off, and when John asked Molly about it, she just shrugged. Women flitted past their table every now and again, sometimes giggling and waving to John, who did not wave back. His eyes were fixed on the figure of Sherlock Holmes, standing completely still on the platform above the dance floor. He wasn't sure where Mycroft had disappeared to nor did he really care.

At some point, Molly glanced up at John and caught him staring at Sherlock. She pursed her lips and sighed loudly, placing a hand on John's. "I know," she said as quietly as she could, "He's beautiful. But he's definitely, definitely off limits."

John looked down at her hand on his, not feeling a damn thing like he probably should, and then snorted. "Yeah, I'm not interested anyway." It was a blatant lie, but he wanted to get Molly off his back, or more appropriately, off his hand. She read his mind, pulling her hand away and turning back to stare out at the dance floor. John thought he spotted Lestrade and Mycroft talking, most likely about their plans to meet later in the night about the play.

His attention was back on Sherlock within seconds. He was now chatting idly with an average height man with black hair, also wearing an expensive looking suit. He seemed disinterested, which made John smile, but he didn't know why. A very long time passed, or so it seemed to John, before the lights in the room dimmed and silver confetti began to fall from the ceiling.

He blinked and looked up just as a swing lowered from the ceiling. Everyone in the room was dead silent. A beautiful woman sat on the swing, her legs crossed, her dark hair flowing over her shoulders in lovely waves. She started to sing when the swing stopped, her gorgeous voice echoing through the room.

> _The French are glad to die for love,_
> 
> _They delight in fighting duels_
> 
> _But I prefer a man who lives_
> 
> _And gives expensive… jewels_

"W-Who the hell…?" John stammered his eyes glued onto her long and slender legs. It was the first time he hadn't been staring at Sherlock.

"Irene Adler. They call her the Sparkling Diamond," Molly replied as music blasted through the hall and all the men converged around the spot where her swing was lowering. John felt a tug in his chest and he stood, nearly knocking over his chair. Molly jumped at his sudden action, startled, but he didn't pay her any attention. He started to stalk off, towards the center of the floor. This was his only chance.

"Where are you going?" Molly yelled after him, but he didn't answer. She peered up at Irene, then at the place where Sherlock had been standing. Where did he go? Then she realised what was happening and smiled after John.

"Oh, John," she whispered to herself, "It's useless." But John was already halfway across the dance floor, shoving people out of his way as he went. A lot of people shouted things at him, even tried to take a swing at him, but he carried on through the crowd, his eyes set on the thing he wanted most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was actually over 3,000 words but I decided to split it up. More singing! Hooray! For those of you who aren't familiar with French, "voulez-vous couches avec moi, ce soir?" means "Will you sleep with me, tonight?" in English. It's important to the plot, which is why I included it. The two songs I used in this chapter were "Lady Marmalade" by Christina Aguilera, Lil’ Kim, Mya, & P!nk and the very beginning of "Sparkling Diamonds" by Nicole Kidman, Jim Broadbent, et al. Thank you to my friend and beta reader, KatrinaKay, for being awesome as always!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock/Moulin Rouge AU: John is an English writer travelling to the small village of Montmartre in Paris, France is hopes of taking part in the Bohemian Revolution. As soon as he arrives, he gets swept up by the revolutionaries and taken to the Moulin Rouge where he meets Sherlock Holmes. He quickly finds himself caught in a dangerous love triangle that could risk his entire career and maybe even his life.

John finally reached the bottom of the steps up to the platform, his face exuding sheer determination. Standing only a few metres away was Sherlock Holmes and John audibly gasped at how much more gorgeous he was up close. His skin was white and smooth as marble, which contrasted against his black suit nicely. John felt a little ball of heat settling in his stomach as he closed the distance between them, his hands shoved into his pockets to hide their shaking.

He came to lean against the rail next to Sherlock, their arms almost touching. John didn't say anything for a long while and Sherlock never looked down at him. Finally, John cleared his throat loudly and smiled up at him. Sherlock's eyes flicked to John and then back up to Irene, who was now being surrounded by men on all sides. John swallowed hard and looked down at his shoes.

"You seemed lonely," John finally said, just barely audible over the din in the room. Sherlock looked down again, his face smooth and unchanging.

"You're wrong," Sherlock replied, turning away, not even blinking. John felt himself flush as his heart skipped in his chest. Sherlock's voice was drawling and deep and… really sexy. But he wouldn't give up so easily, even though Sherlock was obviously uninterested.

"I think you're lying," John laughed coyly, his eyes crinkling in the corners. Sherlock slowly turned to look at him with an incredulous expression, his mouth pressed into a hard line.

"And what makes you think that, exactly?" Sherlock replied eloquently, his voice ringing in John's ears long after he finished speaking.

"There are all these beautiful people here, and you're standing here alone," John pointed out, nodding out towards the dance floor.

"This is my job," Sherlock replied, looking bored yet slightly amused by John's words.

"So? You should have a little fun too." John's grin widened and he reached out to grab Sherlock's hand, but Sherlock quickly jerked it away and grimaced.

"I'm not interested." Sherlock's mouth turned down into a frown as John pushed off of the railing and started to walk away into the crowd.

"Suit yourself," John whispered, turning to face Sherlock as he backed up towards the surging throng of dancers and onlookers alike. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and John smiled impishly, biting his lip. He kept his eyes on Sherlock, even when he found an attractive red head to dance with. She danced and twirled around John, her hands on his chest, then his shoulders. He knelt down, kissing her hand lightly, and turned to smirk at Sherlock. John laughed at the strained expression Sherlock wore. It was almost endearing. And John began to sing, belting the lyrics out ferociously along with Irene, his voice reaching across the dance floor to Sherlock.

> _A kiss on the hand may be quite continental,_
> 
> _But diamonds are a girl's best friend_
> 
> _A kiss may be grand but it won't pay the rental_
> 
> _On your humble flat,_
> 
> _Or help you feed your, mmm, pussy cat._

At the last line, John licked his lips and Sherlock stiffened, his entire body rigid and his translucent blue eyes wide. John swiveled around, wrapping his arm around the waist of a man in a three-piece suit. He was young and blonde and not quite as gorgeous as Sherlock, but he would do. John leaned up and bit the man's lip as he press their bodies together. John stole a quick glance at Sherlock, who was still watching with a grim expression.

 _ **He'll regret letting me get away**_ , John thought to himself as he turned on his heel and moved on to the next person, a heavyset blonde woman with dark brown eyes and heavy lids and a beauty mark above her left eyebrow. He reached his hands around to cup her arse, making her giggle wildly. He kept singing along with Irene as he made his way across the floor to dance with another man, and two more women, and then a person who he regretfully could not discern a gender.

> _Men grow cold as girls grow old_
> 
> _And we all lose our charm in the end_
> 
> _But square cut or pear-shaped,_
> 
> _These rocks don't lose their shape_
> 
> _Diamonds are a girl's best friend_

And then John felt a hand on his shoulder that twirled him around quickly. It was Irene. Her eyes were on his, a small smile curling on her red lips, and then she looked past him, at Sherlock. He could tell by the look in her eyes that she understood the situation. She dragged him across the dance floor by his wrist to a circle of cancan dancers holding up their dresses. They ducked out of sight, into the middle, and John yelped in surprise as he fell on his arse.

"I've got someone to impress and it appears you do too," Irene said hurriedly, stripping her shiny leotard off and grabbing another outfit, just as provocative as the one before. Then, she quickly threw a pair of gold shorts at him and his face reddened.

"Are you crazy? I mean… I can't wear these!" he shouted and she pressed a finger to his lips.

"You can, and you will, because that will definitely get his attention," she said, a hint of teasing in her voice. Before he knew what was happening, hands were ripping off his clothes and then he was in the gold shorts. Then Irene had his hands and she was tugging him up, back into view of the audience. The initial embarrassment passed quickly when John spotted Sherlock across the room. Sherlock was licking his lips, a mischievous smile on his face.

> _'Cause that's when those louses_
> 
> _Go back to their spouses_
> 
> _Diamonds are a girl's best friend_

Irene had already taken off in the opposite direction, trilling and leaping across the floor to dance with the dark-haired man Sherlock had been speaking to earlier. A good portion of the crowd was staring at John, watching him intently. He caught sight of Lestrade and Mycroft dancing with each other, which definitely explained a lot. Then there was Sherlock, staring at John from across the room, his stance almost animalistic, his eyes hungry and wanting. But John didn't want to give in so easily. He was a master at playing hard to get. He danced with anyone who was willing, grinding his hips against them, his hands wandering, sometimes kissing them if he was really enjoying himself. But he never took his eyes off Sherlock, not even once.

John was dancing with a semi-attractive brunette woman, his lips on her neck, when it was apparent that Sherlock had snapped and he was not having that. He was making his way across the dance floor at an incredible pace, stripping off his suit jacket to reveal a white shirt and suspenders. Oh god, oh fucking hell, John thought as he watched him slither through the crowd like a snake. John quite literally shoved the brunette woman off of him and started through the crowd to Sherlock.

And when they met, sparks were flying. John's hand immediately went up to tangle his fingers in Sherlock's hair and Sherlock's hands were on John's waist, pulling him as close as possible. John slipped his other hand around Sherlock's neck and he hoisted himself slightly to kiss him on the mouth hungrily. Sherlock was tugging John backwards, towards the shadows at the edges of the floor, away from the prying eyes of the patrons. Every now and then, they'd bump into someone, and Sherlock would curse breathily, and John felt himself get harder in his tiny shorts.

"I thought you'd never give in," John said against Sherlock's lips, smirking, his lids heavy over his eyes.

"I changed my mind when I saw you in those ridiculously tight pants," he hissed and flicked his tongue over John's lips. When they finally reached the back wall, Sherlock pushed John against it. Sherlock's hands were on John's chest, then his stomach, then his lower back and then his arse. When John gave a loud groan, Sherlock leaned down and bit into his neck, sucking a large purple mark where everyone could see it, like a dog marking its territory.

"Jesus…" John gasped, squirming under Sherlock's body. John was hot and sweaty and for once, he didn't care who was looking because he felt so territorial over this man he had only just met. He wanted everyone to know that Sherlock Holmes, the man who appeared to be completely and utterly disinterested in anyone and anything, was all over him.

All too soon, the song ended and Sherlock pulled away dizzily, nearly falling. He laughed at his slip up and leaned in to kiss John again, before throwing his suit jacket back over his shoulders. His eyes moved to look at the platform, where Mycroft now stood with the man John seemed to be seeing a lot of tonight.

"I've got to go… meet with someone," Sherlock said huskily, turning back to face John. He didn't look particularly happy about it and it made John smile.

"Will I see you again?" John asked abruptly, grabbing Sherlock's wrist and tugging him gently back towards him. Sherlock broke free of John's grip and sighed, closing his eyes.

"It's doubtful," Sherlock admitted, pulling his arms through the sleeves of his suit jacket. John felt his stomach drop, his heart crashing against his ribcage. He actually felt like he could scream. But then some emotion that John couldn't pinpoint flashed across Sherlock's face and he cleared his throat.

"I don't think I caught your name," Sherlock said after a long moment, and John hastily replied, "It's John. John Watson." Sherlock laughed softly and bent down to plant a kiss on John's cheek.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, but you already knew that," he whispered into John's ear. He took a step back, turned on his heel gracefully and started to walk away before looking over his shoulder.

"Disregard what I said before. I have a feeling I'll be seeing you again, John Watson," Sherlock drawled before disappearing up the stairs.

 

{***}

 

John found Molly sitting in the exact same spot he'd left her. She smiled up at him when he approached and held out a pile of folded clothes to him wordlessly. He let out a long sigh of relief and dressed quickly, afterwards taking the seat across from her and kicking his legs up on the table.

"Have fun?" Molly asked, grinning from ear to ear. John thought she was being sarcastic at first, but when he looked at her, he saw nothing but genuine interest in her eyes.

"Um… yes… quite a bit of fun," he said, licking his lips and running a hand over the purple mark on his neck. Molly just beamed at him and then turned to look out at the thinning crowd. Lestrade sauntered up a few seconds later, his neck and chest making John's mark look like child's play.

"Good lord, what happened to you?" John asked, raising his eyebrows so far up his forehead they could've become part of his hairline. Lestrade laughed and rubbed his neck, a little embarrassment showing on his face.

"Mycroft, ya see…" he started, but Molly quickly interrupted with, "Mycroft and Lestrade are sleeping together." Lestrade sighed, exasperated, shaking his head. When he looked up, he caught sight of the mark on John's neck and smiled at him lopsidedly.

"Looks like you had a bit of fun yourself," Lestrade said, pointing at the mark and trying to sound nonchalant. John covered it with his hand and flushed from head to toe, remembering Sherlock's mouth on his neck, sucking.

"Yeah, with Sherlock Holmes," Molly said sweetly. John just groaned and dropped his chin to his chest. Lestrade came and patted John on the shoulder, his signature goofy grin spreading across his face.

"John's made more progress with Sherlock Holmes in three hours than any of us have in five years!" Lestrade chuckled and patted John's shoulder one more time before taking a seat next to Molly.

"So, next order of business," Molly started, clearing her throat and smiling at John. Lestrade quickly cut her off, his eyes lighting up.

"It's taken care of. Mycroft will meet with John later tonight in the elephant." Lestrade's eyes shifted to the door leading out to a small courtyard. John followed his gaze. He didn't remember seeing any elephant when he came in, but then he remembered how drunk he was.

"Right, elephant. You'll show me the way, I hope. What time?" John's eyes moved to look up at the platform. There was no sign of Sherlock, let alone Mycroft or the well-dressed man that Irene had danced with.

"Eh, I'd say about two hours from now. Said he's got some kind of important meeting with the Duke." Lestrade shrugged and John rolled his eyes. He was getting tired and he really didn't want to wait for another two hours. This job was important though and he knew Molly and Lestrade were relying on him.

"Yeah, okay, just… no more dancing." John's legs were sore already and he knew they would be killing him tomorrow. Lestrade just laughed and reached over to clap John on the shoulder again.

"You say that now," Lestrade said, pointing to the dance floor. It appeared that people were setting up for another sort of show and John groaned. Molly shook her head at John and grinned.

"No, John, really. This next one… it's like the biggest event of the night!" She nearly knocked over the table with excitement, making her blush and root herself further into the chair.

John just stared out at the dance floor, remembering Sherlock's hands on him. His lips. His eyes. His hair. All of it. He wanted to see him again, more than anything. After Sherlock had slinked away, John hadn't been able to find him again, which made John feel fairly hopeless. But the night was young and he would be meeting with Sherlock's older brother later. Maybe Sherlock would be there. Leaning back in his chair, John smiled, and settled for recalling the memories he'd made. He would find Sherlock Holmes again, even if it was the last thing he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, John in those gold pants... anyway! I used the rest of "Sparkling Diamonds" in this scene, as you can probably tell. This was such a fun chapter to write and it only gets better from here. Thank you as always to KatrinaKay for being generally wonderful, giving me crazy ideas for this fic and beta reading!


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